“Good-afternoon, Mr. Roper.”
He turned quickly. “Hallo, Griffiths,” he said as a constable entered. “Got back all right then?”
Constable Griffiths grinned. “You’ve said it. Ran ’em into Lewes Jail about half-past eleven this morning—wasn’t half a mob as the van drew up. News spreads, don’t it, Mr. Roper? Nice job for a Bank Holiday!”
Roper nodded. “Guess they won’t call it a honeymoon, that pair,” he reflected. “Still, things aren’t at all clear....”
“Which one did the job, do you think?” interrogated Griffiths.
“Which job?”
“Why, the murder, of course. What’s the Inspector think?” He went on. “I know he ain’t holding ’em yet for that job—I was here when they were charged, but he’s a dark horse, he is,” he chuckled as at some particularly satisfying reminiscence ... “I’ve known him years.”
“Well, Griffiths, he hasn’t confided in me ... yet,” rejoined Roper, “but if you want my opinion, for what it’s worth, we aren’t by any means at the end of the case ... not by a long way.”
Griffiths showed signs of agreement, sagely. “I gave Dr. Elliott a hand when they brought the body down to the mortuary,” he announced with an obvious sense of importance, “unusual thing you know, Mr. Roper, a bloke strangled and stabbed like this one was—like the pictures,” he concluded with evident relish.
“Yes,” said Roper. “I can tell you it’s given the Inspector plenty to think about.”